


Cough Syrup

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Humor, Kissing, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Magic, Non-Consensual Kissing, Spells & Enchantments, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1311238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meddling about in Merasmus’ belongings, Soldier finds some kind of crazy magical cough syrup and drinks it.  It’s not nearly what he expected it to be, unleashing a new kind of terror on the other members of RED Team: Himself.</p><p>(marked non-con due to magically-coerced kissing)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cough Syrup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fishfacedterror](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Fishfacedterror).



A pair of blue eyes squinted in the low light, peering out from under a heavy, ill-fitting army helmet. Merasmus' workshop had been left unlocked, the wizard having gone off for some errand, leaving his arcane laboratory unattended. Soldier, ever curious, had taken the opportunity to see what the ancient man kept so secret.

"Maybe we'll find some snacks, or where he keeps his girly magazines, Lieutenant!" the mercenary mused to the raccoon on his shoulder, shoving the door open after being sure the room was unoccupied. Stepping in, he paused to take in the wonders around him, Lieutenant Bites' hackles all standing on end, puffing the small creature out into a ball of grey-brown fluff next to his head.

A sickly green light suffused the room, even with no visible sources. It was a soft, thrumming energy that seemed to slightly pulse with Soldier's heartbeat, but provided only the shallowest of illumination. The mercenary squinted; able to pick out shapes and get an idea of the space he was in, but detail was lost to him. He strode forward to a nearby table, intent on finding a lamp or something of the like. A brasier on the wall beside it flickered to life in his presence, flame jumping into action like it had been caught napping on the clock. A warm orange glow joined the green, lighting the area. Quickly, other brasiers began to spring into action, lighting themselves along the walls lining the room like dominoes falling until they circled back around to the door. Finally, a chandelier overhead, constructed of antlers and bones, roared with sudden, magical flame, bringing a warm, bright, cheeriness to the space.

The room was large. Immense, even. It was a library, a laboratory, and a museum of curiosities all contained within a space that, according to the floor plan and plumbing of the castle, should only be about the size of an overlarge closet. If had it existed on the same plane, the room Soldier had stepped into could have easily taken up a quarter of the castle's space. Instead, the extradimensional space slotted nicely into place, anchored and connected by the portal that was the closet's door. To Merasmus, his intruders were standing in his personal demiplane. To Soldier, it was a pretty neat trick.

The walls were lined with shelves. Most contained books upon books, musty old tomes all. Folios, quartos, octavos, and assorted codices filled with yellowed pages and bound in exotic leathers sat in perfect, if incomprehensible organization according to their owner's needs. Several sat on tables or in decorative stands, usually bearing unusual covers or opened to specific pages. On other shelves, items of arcane use sat. Bottles, jars, specimens, and talismans littered several walls, labeled and carefully displayed. Skulls and hides, tokens and gems, blades and bludgeons and tools of all sorts that served more purposes than Soldier could imagine racked shelves that stretched higher than he could reach. Tables, small and large, littered the room, covered with candles, scrolls, wands, bones, and books, as well as the remains of a half-eaten bag of cheese curls and an empty mug ringed with dried cocoa.

Soldier strolled around the room, peering into jars and poking at anything that looked like it could be squishy. He avoided the books. Reading was dangerous, if that awful bomb-book, curiously absent from its cradle at the back of the room, was anything to go by. Certainly, none of the ponderous volumes looked anything like the girly mags he'd been hoping to come across. It was almost like this wasn't Merasmus' secret stash! But the cheese curls looked like a dead giveaway.

Lieutenant Bites leapt from Soldier's shoulder, scurrying over to a long table beneath a group of shelved tchochkes, knocking over several vials and baubles onto the thick, plush green carpet. The wily animal came to a stop in front of a smallish mahogany box, decorated with gold filigree and a few red gems. He pawed at it a bit, sniffing around the thing, inspecting it with great detail.

“What've you got here, Lieutenant?” Soldier asked, following him over and looking at the box as his friend patted the thing with his paws, trying to grab it to lift the lid. Doing the honours for the little raccoon, Soldier's eyebrow lifted in time with the box's top. Inside, set on a pillow of violet velvet, was a phial with a yellowed, flaking label. Stoppered with a glass trinket in the shape of a rose, the phial contained a milky, pink liquid. It shimmered softly as light made an effort to pierce it and shine through, reflected by millions of tiny points suspended within the liquid, creating a soft rainbow that glided across the pink fluid as the eye did the same. Squinting at the label, Soldier hummed with annoyance. “How the hell is anyone supposed to read this? It's written in those little magic wingdings Merasmus draws all over the place. Why can't wizards just write like proper Americans?”

Lieutenant Bites sniffed at the phial in response.

“You're right, Lieutenant. I bet you this is some kind of condiment that makes food taste amazing, or a drink that wakes you up like a whole pot of coffee, or crazy magic cough syrup that makes you healthier than you started! Only one way to find out,” Soldier declared, snatching the phial from its velvet seat. Pulling it into the light, tiny pinpricks of green shimmered across the surface of the liquid, breaking into prismatic glitter as the firelight licked it through its glass prison. Rainbows and viridescent hues danced before his eyes, a warm sensation humming gently into the pads of his fingers. Tugging the flower-shaped stopper free, Soldier released a scent like roses and tea into the air, which filled his lungs as he pressed the phial's open mouth to his lips and drank its opaque, shimmering pink contents down in a quick gulp. It left a lingering taste like almond syrup and coconuts on his tongue, and a warmth that spread through his mouth and down his throat as it descended, heating his body pleasantly as it went.

Licking at his lips, Soldier shrugged and tossed the delicate phial over his shoulder along with its stopper. “Tastes pretty good. What do you think, Lieutenant? What kind of magic is gonna happen? Maybe I'll get some kind of crazy superpowers! I'll be able to leap buildings, or throw buckshot from my fingertips, or eat cars! They'd have to fire the rest of the team, because I'd get all of the killing done myself!” the mercenary chuckled, picking up his superior officer, who struggled and chomped at his hands fitfully. “Just imagine the look on Merasmus' dumb face when I can fly!”

Soldier smiled, images drifting through his head.

 

“Soldier! How can you do all of these things? What did you do?” Merasmus wailed, eyes wide and scanning his roommate in amazement, taking their time to trace the muscles of the mercenary's arms as he flexed, unharmed, as bullets fell from his bare, furry chest, stopped by his tanned, sweat-sheened flesh.

“I guess I'm just that good,” Soldier crooned, taking the taller man into his arms, supporting his back as the wizard swooned, bending with him and bringing their faces close.

“Soldier, you're so strong and handsome and smart! So much smarter than me!” came Merasmus' cries, his voice quivering with adoration and growing ardor as his long, robed arms snaked around the shorter, stronger man's shoulders, closing the distance between them until their noses brushed. “Kiss me, Soldier. You perfect man, you American prince!”

“My pleasure,” Soldier replied, “but this great country has no prince! We've got a vice-president! Now gimme some sugar.” His civics lesson complete, he pressed his mouth to the wizard's, feeling him tremble in his arms as lips moved together and parted, tongues wrestling hungrily.

 

Climbing up to his friend's shoulder, Lieutenant Bites snuffled at Soldier's face, sniffing around his mouth. Grabbing hold of him, as he was wont to do, Lieutenant Bites licked at a drop that had caught on the man's stubble, just below his lip. Swallowing, he twitched, pawing at the mercenary's face with scrabbling hands until he had a firm grip of Soldier, and contentedly licked at his cheek before settling in comfortably, letting go to grip his uniform as he compressed himself into a ball of fluff next to the man's head, chittering softly and rousing the mercenary from his reverie.

“Well you're friendly, aren't you? Don't want me to go to work tomorrow? Well, I'm sorry to obey a direct order, Lieutenant, but what the boss lady says, goes. She's, uh, she's pretty scary. I should go get packing,” Soldier chuckled, stealing out of Merasmus' study, torches going dark in his wake.

 

*

 

Leaning against the frame to Spy's quarters, Scout watched the Frenchman finish closing up the drawers of his dresser, giving the room a last once-over before being satisfied that he was finished unpacking. Tugging his balaclava –an annoying, if strangely stylish part of his uniform– to make sure it was in place, Spy joined his teammate outside, closing the door with a quiet click. He nodded toward the mess hall, intent on getting a drink, already parched by his return to the dusty desert base.

Scout followed, a bit loath to keep Spy's leisurely pace, but not really being in any actual hurry to be anywhere and all too happy to continue the story he'd been telling while his friend unpacked. “So like I was sayin', I said to Joe, 'Brudda, you ain't seen shit. You should'a seen the size of this guy, he was freakin' massive.' He called me a bullshit artist but hand ta God man, I took 'im. Didn't even break a sweat. 'Sides, I think ol' Joe was just jealou-- hey, Soldier!”

Scout stopped mid-sentence as the shutter door to the base lifted enough for his teammate to crouch under it, dragging in a foot locker and a few duffels. Nevermind that foot lockers were provided standard by RED in every base, already in each employee's designated quarters. Soldier had always insisted on bringing his own in addition. “Hello, Scout! Hello, Spy!” the Midwestern mercenary greeted cheerily, closing the door behind him. “Am I the last one here?”

“As usual,” Spy noted, stepping over to help Soldier with his bags. “A driver's license would help you dearly with your punctuality problems, mon ami.”

“State keeps saying something about being a danger to myself and others or something,” Soldier shrugged, stooping to grab a duffel. “What the duly elected government of this great state of New Mexico says goes, goes.”

“Your adherence to states' rights is admirable,” the rogue mumbled through a soupy layer of sarcasm.

Looking up to Spy, Soldier's broad, friendly grin softened instantly, catching his teammate by surprise. “Thank you, Spy,” came his reply, no longer jocular and upbeat, but gentle, almost quavering as it passed his teeth and wound into the air, making the Frenchman's eyes widen with a sudden awkward disconcertment.

Blue eyes, peeking just barely from beneath the rim of Soldier's helmet, locked onto Spy's own, something unreadable but wholly unnerving contained in their moist sparkle. And then he was on him. Strong arms circled Spy's slim form, taking him from bent forward to back, swept almost entirely off of his feet and barely perched on his heels as he arched back in Soldier's grasp. Soft yet chapped lips pressed to the Frenchman's, warm and not unpleasant, parting them with the gentle invasion of his hot tongue slithering past Spy's teeth to tangle with the rogue's, drawing deep breaths and light moans from the thinner, taller man. One broad hand cupped the back of Spy's head as his own arms wrapped around Soldier's broad shoulders, gripping his coat in the furor of their embrace, bodies pressing closer, hot, heavy breaths puffing through their noses until lips nearly parted, tongues still entwined, panting gasps raging in and out of open mouths before they closed on each other again. Moans, more insistent and hungry, bubbled out of Spy, his body undulating against Soldier's as the shorter man's hand found its way to his backside.

Scout stood in shock and horror at the sudden development, jaw working but unable to summon his voice. He stepped back as if to run, as if to scream and cry foul and demand an explanation from someone, anyone but the two men furiously making out in front of his eyes. The last time he checked, Soldier and Spy were NOT a couple, and he was reasonably sure neither of them was a homosexual. Well, at least he was reasonably sure Soldier wasn't. He was never sure with Europeans. Though wasn't Spy seeing the BLU Scout's mother?

“W-what the crap?!” Scout stammered, his voice returning as his train of thought veered, threatened to derail in a fiery conflagration, and righted itself to a chorus of Soldier's grunts and Spy's increasingly wanton moans. “Spy! Soldier! What the hell?”

Spy's eyes snapped open at the sound of Scout's voice, ripped from his hormone-laced little world and brought back to lucidity. He beheld the face of his teammate, Soldier, pressed to his own, became keenly aware of the pouting bottom lip gripped between his teeth, of the hands roving his body, as well as the eager growl they shared at the parting of their lips. Shock took hold for a split second before he came crashing back to reality, tearing his face away from Soldier's, screaming in horror.

Soldier released Spy, letting him fall into the pile of duffels on the floor and scramble to his bottom, gasping and backpedaling until he was pressed against the hallway wall behind Scout, a look on his face of utter, harrowed horror. His lips were bruised, his mouth tasted of Soldier, a flavour he'd never expected to know, and he felt sick. He'd not just kissed Soldier. He'd ground against Soldier. He'd shared spit and lust and been entirely aroused by Soldier. What the hell had just happened to him?

“What the HELL just happened?” Scout echoed the thought, staring at Spy, then looking to Soldier, who was smiling broadly.

“I-- I do not know! He was kissing me, and then-- then I do not know. I kissed him back, mon Dieu I did,” Spy sputtered, unable to explain anything. His mind was foggy at best, like he'd been drunk for just that short length of time and had come crashing back to sobriety, forced to play the 'why did I make out with that guy when I was trashed' game. It had been some time since Spy had had to partake in that particular exercise.

“Waddaya mean you don't know?” the younger man pressed, throwing his arms wide. “You an' Soldier like a couple or somethin'? Are you guys homos? Why am I always the last to know anything?”

“It's okay, Spy,” Soldier joked, kicking aside a duffel and approaching, only for Spy to climb the wall, pulling himself to his feet in an attempt to push himself through it and further away. “You don't have to worry. We don't have to hide our love, Crouton! It's masculine, sweaty, hairy, and American! Be proud!”

Spy glanced side to side and darted behind Scout, putting the other American between himself and Soldier. “Non! Soldier, we are not--”

And like that, it was over. As Soldier closed on Scout, intent on Spy, his eyes darted to the younger man, locking onto him. His smile grew soft again, dreamy, and he reached out to the runner, taking hold of his arm and tugging him away from the Frenchman, into his own embrace. Scout fought, crying out and shoving his hand in the older man's face to push it away, but when Soldier's lips touched his palm, pressing a gentle kiss to the heel of his thumb, he ceased his yelling, stopped his pushing, and fell into the other man's arms like he was meant to be there.

Same as Spy, Scout's arms found their way around Soldier's neck, and he found himself being kissed, first on his jaw, leading to his neck with gentle nips. When he was hefted upright and pressed to the wall, he lifted a leg to wrap around the older man's waist, letting lips collide and tongues wrestle, high-pitched whines escaping his nose.

“Non, non, non!” Spy cried, grabbing at Soldier's coat, trying to tear him away even as hips began moving in tandem, threatening to turn into something far more lurid thanks to Scout's youthful enthusiasm.

“What the hell is all of this racket—Good night Irene!” came a cry from the corner, followed by a loud clanging thud as Engineer dropped his wrench to the wooden floor of the hallway. “What in Sam Hill is goin' on here?!”

“I am trying to figure out the same!” Spy cried, pulling fruitlessly at Soldier. “Help me get him off!”

“Looks like Scout's doin' a pretty good job of that,” Engineer observed, rushing over to help, their combined strength wrenching Soldier from Scout's grasp, tugging him out of reach of the younger man.

As soon as they parted, whatever sway Soldier held on Scout faded, leaving the runner keenly aware of what just happened, and his body's own reactions to the situation. Clutching the wall, he retched dry, suddenly very much for want of a shower. His friend, his teammate, he'd just-- oh God. Sinking to the floor, he clutched his stomach, doubled over and grousing, frustrated, bewildered, and more than a little disgusted.

Spy turned to his friend, then to Soldier, who was being hauled to the opposite wall by Engineer. “Keep him there, I'll help Scout,” Spy called, then knelt beside the younger man, offering him a hand.

Scout looked up to Spy, his eyes alight with rage, choked and smoldering under heavy layers of confusion. Those wobbling blues jumped from the rogue, however, over his shoulder and behind him as a shuffle and a yelp rang out from behind Spy's back. The Frenchman whirled around in time for Engineer to lose his grip on Soldier, lips closing on his own, and begin to go limp in his arms.

“Non! Not again!” Spy cried, jumping to his feet. Scooping up the Texan's discarded wrench as he strode to his rescue, Spy brought the weapon to bear, stepping behind the taller of the two Americans. He swung, bashing the thing against the back of Soldier's head, crashing his face into Engineer's and bloodying the smaller man's nose. Soldier's helmet rang like a dinner bell through the hall, and Spy's hand felt numb from the vibration as the wrench reared back in his grasp. More importantly, however, the Midwesterner dropped his southern partner, clutching at his head in agony as he fell to his knees, helmet falling to the floor.

"Grab him!" Spy ordered, urging Scout into motion. Each of the slim men grabbed an arm of the disoriented Texan's, helping him to his feet and rushing off to put as much distance between themselves and Soldier as possible.

They were outmatched by whatever it was that was affecting Soldier, and required the assistance of someone with experience in the strange and uncomfortable.

 

*

 

"Do not fear, my little friends. Soon, your home shall be back to your liking, just as before we left," Medic cooed to the assembled flock of doves in his infirmary, the gentle tones of his native tongue echoing in the sterile room below. Perched atop his head, Archimedes cooed in return, peeking down at the doctor as he steadied himself dangerously atop a ladder, half-tugging himself into the rafters. Feed dispensers hung from hooks long-ago embedded into the wooden supports arching over the infirmary, freshly filled along with matching water dispensers. Tucking some baskets onto the beams, resting in corners and near self-installed perches, the Medic smiled at his handiwork.

The rafters of the infirmary had long served as the nesting and perching grounds for his beloved doves, a natural place for them to congregate. Noticing this, as well as their tendency to perch and nest amongst his equipment and inside of teammates, making a general mess of things, the doctor had long since installed a more homey environment for them above, with perches and multiple places to feed and drink, as well as baskets and nesting materials to keep the trouble-seeking birds occupied and away from his work.

Crossing his eyes, Medic met Archimedes' beady gaze, chuckling a bit at his favourite pet. "Is it not to your specifications, Archimedes? Should I leave you to reorganizing? I know you are going to anyway."

Archimedes cooed in response, lifting his head to look at the display and shaking it with a swift flick, ruffling the feathers of his neck. He hopped from his master's head, gliding over to a perch nearest the food and sampling the dispenser's wares. He would get to decorating in his own time, once he had a good snack and maybe a nap.

"DOC!" Scout cried, slamming the door open, sending doves fluttering and cooing in a panic with the sudden, violent interruption. His noisy entrance nearly drowned out the surprised cry of the doctor, similarly startled.

"Scout! So help me I will sew so many foreign objects into you if you do stop doing that every time you enter!" Medic cried, clutching at his chest in mock-arrest, one arm wrapped tightly around the rafter.

"Oh shit!" Scout sped over, steadying Medic's ladder and offering a sheepish grin to his scowling teammate. Behind, Spy and Engineer stole into the room, closing and locking the door behind them.

Medic took a breath to steady himself, peeling himself from the rafter and climbing down. When his feet his the floor, he fist nearly hit Scout's face, raised in fury and scorn. "What in the world were you thinking, Dummkopf? Even without any patients yet, this is still an infirmary! You cannot run screaming in here, I am surrounded by birds und sharp objects!"

"Aw jeez, I'm sorry Doc, really, I just--"

"We have a rather urgent, rather disturbing problem, Docteur," Spy interrupted, straightening his tie.

Peering over at the other two who had followed Scout in, Medic lifted an eyebrow. "A bloody nose is neither urgent nor disturbing, mein Freund."

Dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief, Engineer waved him off, "This is nothin'. You should see what happened to the other fella'."

"Und who is the other fellow?"

"Just Soldier."

"Was ist going on?" Medic demanded, sick of trivial matters nearly breaking his spine.

"Medic, we have reason to believe that there is some sort of," Spy rolled his wrist in the air, trying to will the words to assemble and leave his mouth, "something," he gave up rather quickly, "wrong with Soldier."

Still nothing new. Medic sighed. "Care to elaborate?"

Spy lit a cigarette, taking a drag. "Soldier has just arrived on-base, and upon his arrival I offered to assist him with his bags. Upon getting close, our eyes met. Suddenly and without warning, he grabbed hold of me and kissed me."

"He... kissed you?"

"Oui. Rather fervently. With... surprising skill. But that is neither here nor there." Spy cleared his throat uncomfortably, shuddering. He took another drag and continued, "Stranger yet, however, was my own reaction to his advances."

"He was super into it!" Scout supplied, peering over Spy's shoulder. "Like he was all 'Oh Soldier you're so hot I wanna munch your face!'" He proceeded to make loud _nom nom_ noises as Spy growled.

"If you will let me finish?" The Frenchman's glare silenced his young friend. "I was, as Scout so elegantly puts it, in to it. I reacted as if embraced by a long-time lover, kissing back with just as much fervor. It was Scout who roused me from it, and when I came to my senses, I made my escape. Soldier gave chase, saying something about our love, and when he found Scout closer, went for him instead, pinning him to the wall and kissing him, with a similar reaction. Engineer helped me wrestle him off, after which he became the object of Soldier's affections. That is when I struck him and we made our egress to seek you out, Docteur."

"Fascinating!" Medic cried, licking the inside of his bottom lip in thought. "So you are saying that not only is Soldier making physical advances on anyone he is close to, but physical contact with him inspires compliance in his partner?"

"Partner is a pretty strong word, Doc," Engineer corrected, his voice muffled behind his blood-spotted handkerchief.

"It seemed a slightly more diplomatic word than victim," Medic supplied with a shrug, making his three guests shift uncomfortably with the connotations of the word. He absently snatched a half-carved apple from his desk, a scalpel embedded in the fruit's flesh, having been used to slice it. "This is mind-boggling! Though, I must wonder: have you thought that perhaps this is not in my realm of study, but perhaps more Demoman's area of expertise?”

“Are you speaking of magic?” Spy ventured, lips pursed in thought.

The doctor tapped his own temple to indicate Spy was on the right track. “There could certainly be medical problems, mostly diseases of the mind, that could cause such a strange streak of behavioural changes in Soldier. However, there are no ailments I am aware of that would cause a reciprocal response in those he came into contact with. Certainly not immediately, und certainly not only for the length of time his lips remained in contact with their skin.”

“So he put us under some kinda spell?” Scout asked.

“It is possible. Though he is probably under a spell of his own. My knowledge of magic is limited, though I admit, it has always interested me.” Wrenching the scalpel from his apple, Medic set the blade down on his desk, a drop of juice not quite finishing the journey between metal and wood, blobbing half-heartedly between. “We should speak to the man who cannot escape such things,” he advised, taking a loud bite of the fruit in his hand.

 

*

 

“Aye, here it is, lads,” Demoman announced, lifting his nose from a heavy tome of lore bound in blotchy purple leather with heavy black stitching.

His quarters were a mess, books upon books thrown every which way and filling most flat surfaces, each man pouring through dusty volumes in search of the information they sought. Demoman had been happy to assist, and had produced his entire collection that he kept with him for them to peruse, drawing questions as to what his private collection looked like if this was the traveling portion. He'd responded that with the strange goings-on that followed him and their team, it was only sensible to keep research material handy.

The sharp minds and eyes of Medic, Engineer, and Spy had been a great help on this task, tearing through pages like madmen, reading until shoulders and spines ached and strain made vision blurry. Scout had mostly been looking at the carefully-penned pictures and symbology, the old dialects and overlarge words far advanced for his meager reading level.

“You sure? Half 'a this shit's barely in English, man!”

“Nae, most o' this shite's in English, lad. Ye just dunnae how tae read aught more complex than a Saxton Hale comic,” Demoman chastised, jabbing a finger at the page he held open. “It's right here. Listen up, boyos. Latin name: Ius Invitus Romanorum, the Reluctant Romance Elixir is a potent enchantment with a radius o' effect up tae five yards from the affected creature. Says the imbiber is drawn tae the closest person within eyeshot and radius and falls madly in love with 'em. The spell enchants any creature in lip-tae-skin contact with the initial subject, though frequent contact is required tae keep the effects constant on the other party.”

“But it wore off the second contact stopped,” Engineer countered with confusion, peering over Demoman's shoulder at the book.

“Aye, says here it loses potency over time, and doesn't store well. Sounds like Soldier picked up an old flask o' the stuff.”

“So how do we fix it?” Scout asked, bored already.

“If ye quit interrupting me I'll find out, won't I?” With a huff, Demoman resumed his scanning of the page. “Initially brewed by Geegacks the Twenty-Sided, its initial purpose was tae grease the wheels in matters political marriage. Seems if two young ones didn't take tae each other but were betrothed, their families would commission this elixir tae ensure they tolerated each other long enough tae solidify treaties and contracts and perform the ceremony.”

“What about after they're hitched? It wears off?”

“Aye, looks like they're stuck in a loveless marriage, just as it is so often for nobility,” the bomber shook his head ruefully, thankful he'd never been pursued for such a bond. “But aye, it looks like a marriage seems tae be-- ah! Here it is! The only way tae break the enchantment in less than a year and a day is tae perform the wedding ceremony and marry the affected person tae a person o' noble blood. At the moment of the kiss, the spell's effects will disperse intae so much aether, and the happy couple is left tae handle the magical fallout themselves.”

“So you're saying we have to have a woman of noble blood marry Soldier?” Medic asked, bewildered. “Where are we going to find a noblewoman here?”

“What about your mother?” Spy ventured, setting down the book he'd long-since stopped paging through. “She is a widow, of noble blood, and--”

“Not marrying Soldier,” Demoman interrupted, glaring Spy down before he could continue.

“Jeez, man, what is it with you and people's mas?” Scout asked, tossing Spy a smirk. “Yanno, it just says someone of noble blood, right? What about you, Demo?”

“I'm a man, ye wee daft--”

“It doesn't say it has to be approved by New Mexico state law, does it? Shit, it's magic, it probably doesn't care if you throw a Jewish wedding with broken glass and that awesome chair lifting dance thing, man. All you gotta do is the I Dos and smooch the guy, and he'll stop trying to play tonsil-hockey with the rest of us!”

“The boy's got a point, there,” Engineer observed, trying to stifle a light chuckle at the Scotsman's exasperation.

“You know, did spend several months as a vicar for a cover identity. I could perform the ceremony,” Spy offered with a smirk.

“I think you may be our only hope, Demo,” Medic reasoned with the friendliest, most charming smile he could muster.

Demoman sighed, peeling his knit cap from his head and giving his scalp a scratch. He supposed there could be worse cures. “At least the spell doesn't require a honeymoon. Somebody go fetch the loud barmy prick so we can start thi--”

_Knock_

_Knock Knock_

_WHAM_

All eyes turned to the door at once, wide in terror. Had Soldier found them? With a gulp, Demoman set his book down and strode over, undoing the lock with a loud _click_. Slowly, he opened the door a crack and craned his head to see through with his good eye. He was staring at a red t-shirt. Following it up, he found Heavy's face, scowling down at him with a look of weary frustration. “Oh, Heavy! Aye, come on in!” the Scotsman welcomed, throwing the door open to reveal Sniper standing beside him, wearing a similar expression. The lanky bushman also wore several large, livid hickies on his long neck, and with Heavy, was holding the arms of Soldier, who struggled between them, gagged and held in twin hammerlocks, grousing loudly through what looked like a sock shoved in his mouth and fastened there with a bandana around his head and across his lips. Pyro peeked out from behind Heavy, looking as nervous as they could without a visible face, tugging possessively at the neckline of their mask.

“Were hoping you would have explanation, or know where to find one,” Heavy said plainly, casting an annoyed glare to Soldier. “Because all other smart men on base have gone missing. It seems we have found brain trust here.”

“Heavy!” Medic called with a merry wave, his excitement melting the giant's frown a little. “Are you three alright?”

“Aside from these?” Sniper asked, pointing to his neck. “Aces. Though poor Heavy had a bit of a start,” he chuckled, trying to ignore the glower that immediately fell back onto the Russian's features.

“Was in shower after work-out. No more will be said,” he threatened, tossing a sneer at Sniper, who recoiled with a sheepish smile. “Is there way to stop this?” he asked, returning his attention to Demoman.

“Way ahead of you!” Scout beamed, walking up next to Demoman and leaning on the door frame. “Hey, you know anything about plannin' a weddin'?”

“Wedding?”

 

*

 

“I shouldn't be surprised that you have an entire box of just wedding rings, but somehow, I am,” Medic mumbled, rosining up the bow of his violin as he watched Spy picking through a small jewelry box from the doorway of his quarters.

Several boxes sat atop the Frenchman's bureau, locked tightly and safe from prying eyes, each containing different sorts of jewelry and accessories for his different disguises and his own personal use. The box he now searched through contained rings of quite a large number, separated into compartments. The largest compartment, where his fingers now rooted around, held nothing but an assortment of different wedding rings in varied metals, styles, and even sizes.

“A man in my line of work must be prepared to assume any cover identity, and with my specific skill set, I need a variety of sizes to work with as well. Though I am far less fat-handed than Demoman and Soldier, I have donned a few disguises of similar proportion. Yet, as the labourer would put it, the pickings are slim,” Spy explained, pulling a small group from the box and sorting through them in his gloved palm. “Ah, these two match well enough, and are about the correct size. I was concerned I might have to ferret out the spare boxes from my car.”

“Spare boxes?” Medic asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Just how many wedding rings have you had to wear over the years, Spy?”

The rogue simply grinned, dropping the unused rings into the box and closing it up, curling his hand around the two chosen. “A lady never tells.”

Chuckling, Medic followed Spy to the mess hall, violin in hand, where Pyro waited with a pail full of weeds and cactus flowers clutched eagerly in their hands, chatting with Scout. At the end of the room, Engineer and Sniper were busily finishing setting up a small altar, the Texan grumbling about how stupid this all was.

“Engineer, if we are to do this, some modicum of ceremony should be observed. Magic can be rather obtuse, so it is best to perform the ritual as best we can, non?” Spy reasoned, handing the rings to Scout and striding up to his teammates, straightening the clerical collar that had replaced his usual tie.

“He's right. The ritual is what undoes the spell,” Demoman agreed, shooting a glance over at Pyro. “Though do we really need the flower...thing?” he asked, earning a glare from Engineer.

“Pyro said they wanted to help, and picked all those cactus flowers themself. Do you want to tell 'em no?”

Casting a glance over to the excited firebug, Demoman watched wearily as they held a cactus flower up to Scout's chest like a boutonniere, a muffled laugh puffing through their mask. The runner chuckled and held the blossom as Pyro drew back their hand, looking over at the others as if to ask what they thought. Shaking his head, Demoman sighed. "I cannae, ye know that. So are we ready?"

"As ready as we can be, I suppose," Medic shrugged from the doorway. "Heavy has Soldier restrained und ungagged in the hall, so the sooner we finish this, the better. Places, then?"

"Places," Spy agreed, casting an all-too-amused smirk to the groom. He was enjoying this far too much.

The assembled mercenaries took their places. Pyro and Scout stood at the doorway, Demoman at the altar with Spy. At the Scot's side was Sniper, his impromptu best man, and on Soldier's side stood Engineer, glad to be spared the walk down the aisle. To the side, Medic lifted his violin to his chin and tucked it comfortably, raising his bow. With a nod from Spy, he began to play.

A soft, lilting tune sprang from his instrument, filling the mess with the singing of the doctor's strings and urging Pyro forward, littering the floor with cactus flowers and weeds. Several clusters of desert brush smouldered on the floor, bright orange and smoking gently. Following behind, Scout hurriedly tamped out the almost-fires with his sneakers, carrying the rings in his upturned hat, gripped by its bill.

When both had reached the altar and taken their places to either side, Medic transitioned to a wedding march, the musical cue for things to begin in earnest. It took several moments before the scuffle in the hall approached, but the wait was not a disappointment.

Soldier entered the hall, wriggling in Heavy's grasp as he was ushered in, his arms still pinned behind his back and helmet nowhere to be found. He tried to turn, to spin around in the giant's grip and shower him with affection even as he leaned his head contentedly back against his chest, stymied by the annoyed Russian's firm hold on both of his wrists. Heavy marched the American forward, practically shoving him to the altar, eager to be done with this silliness. He had far more entertaining and less frustrating silliness he could be attending to instead. Planting Soldier at the altar, across from Demoman, he grabbed the smaller man by the head and turned it forcibly to look on the Scot, holding him still until he felt his hostage go slack.

Demoman noticed the change immediately, tendrils of magic cloying at him as if to try and drag him in, toward Soldier. He could feel the vestiges of the dying spell, what had once been a powerful enchantment, now a shell of its former self, however persistent it may be. Soldier's eyes, however, were a far stronger indicator. Blue eyes fixed on his one, brows furrowing in consternation at the inability to already be holding the object of his affections. There was longing there, yearning that reached deep and made Demoman's stomach ache a little from the sheer agony he read in his friend's eyes. It was strange and terrible, seeing such weakness and surrender in his fiery-if-unhinged teammate. There was no backing out. He had to see this ritual through. There was no way he could leave Soldier like this for a full year and a day, entirely not himself, entirely a lovesick puppy under the sway of some miscast ensorcelment.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here--" Spy began, trying to remember the correct vows. It had been some time since he'd officiated a wedding, nevermind a sham wedding between two men, one of whom was under the effects of ancient magic. Best keep it simple. "To hell with it. Jane Doe, do you take Tavish Finnegan DeGroot to be your husband?"

Soldier grinned wide, eyes glued on Demoman, straining against Heavy's grip, "I do!"

"Tavish Finnegan DeGroot, do you--"

"I do, now stop sayin' me middle name, Spy."

The rogue-cum-vicar tried to keep his smirk at a dull roar, "Scout, the rings?"

Scout stepped forward, holding out his hat. Demoman scooped the rings out and nodded to Heavy, who released one of Soldier's arms, which shot out immediately to attempt to touch the Scot before him. Demoman slipped a ring on Soldier's finger, then handed him the other and held his hand out to him. Eagerly, the American returned the gesture, sliding the ring onto the bomber's finger with a whispered, "You're beautiful." It was blisteringly unnerving.

"Then by the power vested in me by Reliable Excavation and Demolition, I now pronounce you husbands. You may now kiss," Spy supplied, stepping back and out of the line of fire, just in case.

Heavy let go of Soldier, and the force of his impact against Demoman nearly sent both men tumbling to the floor. Strong arms wrapped around the Scot, pulling him close into a tight embrace. It was not the familiar bone-crushing hug he was used to when he friend greeted him, but the clinging grasp of longing, of a lover finally reunited with the light of his life. Looking down at Soldier's face as it turned up to him, Demoman watched the shorter man nearly melt as he closed the distance between them and joined their lips, a hand sliding up to up the back of his head. Easing into the kiss, Demoman felt himself collapsing into Soldier, becoming almost liquid as he embraced his husband in turn, erasing any space in between their bodies, pressed tight together as if they could meld into one. Lips parted, tongues searched, and gentle hums of contentment welled up from their chests. Their union was cemented in word and in deed, two hearts come together in joyous harmony.

The rest of the team averted their eyes uncomfortably, Medic fiddling about with his violin to try and cover up the wet smacking sounds of the kissing couple, as well as the soft grunts that escaped them occasionally.

When Demoman and Soldier parted lips after long moments seemingly unending, each looked to the other, three eyes locked for a moment in a haze neither had been prepared for. But when the hormones cleared and the rush faded, they found the giddy warmth that accompanied the elixir's effects slithering off into the air like a heavy gas expelled from their lungs. It was if a veil had been lifted from Soldier's eyes, a clarity returned to his piercing gaze that was wonderfully familiar to the slightly fuzzy-headed Scotsman. Dimly, he'd wished he'd taken a few more shots before this had all gotten underway.

"Soldier? Ye with me, boyo?"

"Legally, I think I am," the American responded with a bit of confusion, looking down at his ringed finger. "I, uh, that was something." He stepped back to what would normally be a comfortable distance. He was unsure if anything would ever make him comfortable again, and straightened the jacket of his uniform, licking his lips. Demoman tasted warm and sort of savory, with a light, burning, woody tingle, the undercurrent of the whiskey that had prepared him for the ceremony. It was certainly not something he'd ever expected to learn.

"Ye remember everything?"

"I am trying not to, and so I will not," Soldier assured Demoman, his tone beginning to return to normal. It was enough to bring a wide grin to his friend's face.

"Like some assistance in that? I've got a bottle o' the old DeGroot rum I brought from furlough. Was saving it for Smissmas, but I think this is a wee bit more appropriate, aye?"

"Sounds good to me," the American agreed, shaking his head as if to try and kick the thoughts from his mind with its force.

"Then let's go have our own reception tae drink away the horror, Husband," Demoman joked, steering his friend out of the mess, nodding a thanks to Spy as they went.

When they had gone, disappeared down the hall, the room fell silent. Seven mercenaries exchanged uncomfortable glances, all confused, upset, and embarrassed at the ludicrous display they had just taken part in. Sniper scratched idly at the hickies on his neck and scowled.

Scout tugged his hat back atop his head and shifted a bit, looking to his assembled coworkers. After a long moment of silence, he finally ventured, "So, uh, I guess this means there's not gonna be a cake?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> A Secret Santa gift for tumblr user Fishfacedterror, based on this prompt:  
> "Gen. Soldier gets into Merasmus’s potions again and, under the pretence that it was cough syrup, drinks a whole bottle. unbeknowest to him until he gets to his work, it is a love potion, which causes the user to passionately kiss anybody he sees or gets in his range."


End file.
